“The past caught up with Armas,” he said and waved the fillet knife in illustration.
The one to whom the police had shown the most attention was Gonzo, but nothing spoke for the fact that he had been involved, even if the alibi that he presented for the day of the murder was flimsy. It was his day off, he had slept until eleven and gone into town at around two o’clock. He could prove that he had been to the Saluhallen markets by way of a receipt from the cheese vendor that had 14:33 printed on it. In addition, the sales clerk could remember Gonzo’s purchase. He had bought some Stilton.
It was after this that his account became less substantial. He had wandered around downtown, ducking briefly into Bergström’s clock store in order to look at a watch, but no one there could recall seeing him. Then he had gone to Alhambra and talked to Slobodan, returned home at around four o’clock, and then stayed in until shortly before nine when he had a beer at Svensson’s.
He stubbornly claimed that he had resigned, even though everyone knew that he had been fired by Armas. But Gonzo’s version of the events could of course be worth as much as Armas’s.
Eva returned to the kitchen after the police had left. She had been off for two days and wanted to know what had happened. Tessie was not particularly communicative and only gave monosyllabic answers to Eva’s questions.
“Tessie is still in shock,” Feo said. “I think she was the only one who liked Armas. In a way they were similar to each other, though Armas was more ruthless. Tessie has a heart.”
“What do the police say?”
“To us? Nothing. And Slobban has hardly shown his face. He came down once and then he went on about how everything would go on as normal. He is holed up at Alhambra.”
“He’s scared,” Donald said, unexpectedly.
“How do you know that? Has he said anything?”
“No, but you can tell. Armas meant more to him than you realize.”
Donald expressed himself as if he knew more than the others but did not find it worth his while to try to explain it.
When it came to the kitchen and the food he was number one and no one questioned it, but Donald often adopted his superior attitude in other areas. When they discussed politics he mostly gave jabs at Feo.
Feo was eager to re-create a good feeling in the kitchen and therefore he overlooked the arrogant tone.
“It must have been a quick one to slit the throat of someone like Armas,” he said. “Armas was no one you toyed with.”
“Maybe it happened in bed,” Donald said.
“What?”
“You didn’t know, did you? Armas was a fag.”
“I don’t believe it,” Feo said.
“Talk with Nicko at the local video store,” Donald said nonchalantly. “Once Armas came in and checked out twenty homo-films at one time. That’s serious business.”
“No, I don’t believe it,” Pirjo exclaimed.
Everyone looked at the kitchen assistant, who immediately became beet red.
“I see,” Feo said, grinning, “you don’t believe it. Maybe he came on to you?”
Pirjo turned away.
“Don’t pay any attention to us,” Donald said.
It was not the first time he defended the shy Pirjo, who found it so difficult to express what she wanted or thought. But now she turned back again.
“You’re speaking ill of the dead,” she said vehemently. “When Armas was still alive you said nothing, least of all to his face. Am I right?”
Feo nodded. Donald looked at her with curiosity.
“You are right,” he said, “we are cowards. Everyone who works in a kitchen is a coward, you should learn that. If someone has balls, he’ll take his knives and leave, that’s how it is. Such a chef is unhappy.”
“More unhappy than the coward?” Feo asked.
“Yes,” Donald said.
“Is that why you don’t want to join the union?” Johnny hazarded, though he regretted it as soon as he said it.
“As if that is any of your business. No, that isn’t why, and you should have been able to figure it out.”
Johnny got it. With Donald’s work ethic and with the quality of the dishes he presented, there was a negligible chance that he would be badly treated by his employer. Not even if he joined the union. He was too valuable.
Their hands did not rest while they gabbed. They prepared sauce bases, sliced meat, took some things out, wrapped others in plastic, and continued their preparations. Only Eva stood passively. She lingered in the kitchen. There was still a quarter of an hour to go before her shift officially began. She wanted to absorb as much as possible of the new world that was opening to her.
The atmosphere here was completely different from the post office. Perhaps it was the stress that created the raw tone that dominated. There was an urgency to her former job as well, but it was as if the warmth of the stoves, the clatter of china and silverware, the steam from pots and pans, the sudden sizzle of meat, and the waitstaff’s shouted orders … everything created a never-ending restlessness.
“Can you help me, Eva?”
Johnny was busy stocking the refrigerator.
“How are the boys?” he asked softly.
“They’re fine,” Eva said and looked up.
He held her gaze.
“Patrik has started to talk,” she went on, “but he is still grounded.”
She looked at her reflection in the mirror that the roll of aluminum foil attached to the wall provided and where her face appeared cracked in a thousand wrinkles, before she tore off a sheet and handed it to Johnny.
“What do the cops say?”
“Let’s talk later, okay?”
Johnny nodded.
“Thanks for the help,” he said and Eva sensed that the thirty seconds she had helped him were as important for Johnny as for herself.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” she said. “I mean some day before we start work.”
He nodded and glanced at the others.
“Then you can start your own chapter of the union,” said Donald, who had his back to them. He then turned his head and gave them a look of amusement.
“Only if you join us,” Eva said, and swept out of the kitchen.
It was ten o’clock when Eva got home. Her legs were tired and her headache did not want to go away, but she felt satisfied and sent Tessie a mental note of gratitude. She had let Eva go home early. It was as if no one was being so precise anymore, and she had also been understanding when Eva withdrew to call home.
Patrik had answered every time, irritation in his voice, but he turned out to be sitting up waiting for her in the kitchen when she got home.
Hugo was in his room. She heard the sound effects from his computer game. She opened the door a little wider and said hello. His tense back and the concentration in his face testified to a crucial moment in one of these games he spent most of his time on.
She went to the bathroom and got herself some pain relievers.
“Hi, have you had anything to eat?”
Patrik nodded and Eva followed his gaze to the kitchen counter. They had even loaded their dishes in the dishwasher and wiped the counters.
She laughed and put her hand through his hair.
“Was it fun?”
“There were a lot of people,” Eva said. “But they let me go early. When the dinner guests start to get finished it’s mostly drinks and such, and I’m not so good at that yet. The bartender has promised to show me some things. I can’t even tell all the different kinds of beer apart yet.”
“What did they say about that guy who was murdered?”
“No one knows anything, there’s just a lot of talk.”“Was he a good guy?”
Eva shrugged.
“I met him twice and he said all of five words. What about you, what have you been up to?”
“Nothing,” Patrik said.
“Do you want some tea?”
She started to get things out, while Patrik put water on to boil.
When they sat down at the table, Patrik started to talk. Eva realized that he must have spent the evening thinking about it and even how to formulate his beginning.
“Zero is actually not stupid, you know? He is easy to deceive, that’s his biggest problem. He wants to be king but doesn’t know what to do.”
Eva figured out that by “king” Patrik meant “liked.”
“Has he been in touch with you?”
Patrik nodded and took a sip of his tea. Eva waited.
“What are you doing?” Hugo called out suddenly.
“None of your business,” Patrik yelled.
“Patrik!”
“He’s so annoying.”
“What did Zero say?”
“He’s hiding.”
Eva wondered where a fifteen-year-old boy could hide.
“He doesn’t dare go home. His brothers will beat him up.”
“Has he been in touch with his mother?”
“He called but she cried the whole time.”
“What did he say to you?”
Patrik looked up. After a couple of seconds’ hesitation he told her that Zero had been selling drugs in Sävja for the past couple of months. There was a man who had turned up and given him the drugs to sell to his friends.
“You wouldn’t believe what he makes. It can be a couple thousand. He’s planning to go to Turkey and rescue his father,” Patrik said.
“What really happened that evening?”
“That man came by with more drugs but Zero didn’t want to keep going. He was scared, but he didn’t say that. He started to pull some racist crap instead. The man made trouble and Zero punched him.”
“What about you? What did you do?”
Eva forced herself to remain calm. The least slip of the tongue or sign of being upset could result in Patrik clamming up.
“Helped Zero out,” he mumbled. “Then we took off.”
“That was when you came home bleeding?”
Patrik nodded. Eva could see that he was close to tears and felt an enormous gratitude in the fact that he was sitting there across from her, that he was talking, and that he could cry.
“And later, the next evening?”
“Another man came. We were up at the school, just hanging and talking. Then the other man came and started to talk. At first I thought it was a cop.”
“He was the one who was stabbed?”
“He started it!”
Eva nodded.
“Whose knife was it?”
“Zero’s.”
“Do you have a knife?” she asked, wishing she hadn’t the moment she saw Patrik’s expression.
The sound from the computer had stopped and Eva was convinced Hugo was listening.
“Forget it,” she said. “Go on.”
“He started in on Zero, said something about how he owed him money and stuff about, you know, what happens to people who don’t pay their debts. He was pretty scary.”
“What did Zero do?”
“Nothing! He was scared shitless, I could tell. Then the man wanted Zero to go with him to his car but he didn’t want to, he started to run. The guy caught up with him and pulled him down on the ground. The whole thing went so fast. Zero shook him off and then took out the knife. And then he was just lying there, the guy.”
“And this is what you told the police?”
Patrik nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell them this from the beginning?”
“I wanted to talk to Zero first,” Patrik said, and now his eyes were shiny with tears.
Eva stretched out her hand and put it on his arm.
“I’m glad you told me. I’m proud of you, you know that?”
After a couple of minutes of silence, Patrik stood up, took his teacup and put it on the counter.
“Helen called,” he said. “She wanted you to get back to her.”
Eva glanced at the wall clock.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” she said.
“She said you could call late. She sounded really worked up. She has some stuff she’s doing, I didn’t get what it was.”
Eva took the handheld phone with her into the bedroom and dialed Helen’s number.
Thirty-Two
It is like California, but much smaller, Manuel thought. Even so he was pleased with his new location. The landscape constantly awakened memories of his brothers and their time in Anaheim, but he liked this place better than the last one and not only because of the connection with Armas.
Here his gaze did not get snared in brambles and stones. When he climbed up the steep ravine he could look out over wide swathes of good earth, and that had a calming effect.
He recognized the strawberry plants and they were still bearing fruit. The first morning he had been awakened by a tractor and the sound of voices. The evening before, he had wandered down the rows of plants and concluded that there were not many berries left and he was surprised that they still took the trouble to harvest them.
He had picked a few strawberries and put them in his mouth, but this reminded him too much of Angel and Patricio for him to really be able to enjoy the sweetness. How he longed for his brothers! This feeling tore at his heart like a furious animal. It had only gotten worse since he arrived in Sweden.
Slashing that gringo’s throat had not helped, if he had even imagined it would. The first night after he killed Armas and dragged him down to the river, in the hope that he would sink or float away, he had suffered hellish nightmares and woken innumerable times, alternatingly in a cold sweat and feverishly hot. He fell to his knees outside the tent and prayed to San Isidro for forgiveness, ben ládxido zhhn, to make his little heart bigger.
In the darkness of the night he thought he could see a beautiful woman with waist-length hair and copper-colored skin. She disappeared in the direction of the river with a taunting laugh. It was matelacihua and he chanted his prayers more intensely. The bad air surrounded him, constricted his chest, and threatened to suffocate him. He was afraid of losing consciousness only to wake up many miles away.
He knew that his crime was enormous. He had taken on the role of God. This was unforgivable.
The next day he had gone back to the river and discovered that the body was gone. It was as if part of his guilt had washed away with the water. He relaxed, turned his face up to the heavens, and spoke to Angel.
Now, some days later and in a new spot next to the same river, his guilt pricked him like tiny mosquitoes, but not more than he could wave away. He had done the right thing. It had been an act pleasing in the eyes of God to kill a bhni guí’a. The world was the better for it, and Manuel was convinced that Armas’s soul was now subjected to the torments of Hell.
What were the alternatives? he debated with himself. Should he have allowed himself to be killed like a dog? But the knife—why did he carry it in his pocket, if not to use it? Hadn’t he unconsciously prepared himself to kill when he took it out of the bag and slipped it into his pocket? Had he sensed Armas’s intentions as they drove to the river?
If he went to the police he would join Patricio in jail, he knew this. To be thrown in jail was nothing foreign to Manuel and his family. Zapotecs had been persecuted in all ages in any manner of ways, and many were holed up in Oaxaca prisons. Eleven campesinos from a neighboring village had been taken away four months ago and subsequently imprisoned or killed. No one had heard from them again.
But these cases were grounded in defending their land and forests, in matters of autonomy and justice. Manuel had admittedly killed in self-defense, but he did not think anyone would believe him.
He lay in the river ravine in the shadow of fir trees that reminded him of cypresses. A couple of predatory birds hovered in the sky, just as in the valley at home. Would he ever see his village again?
He got to his feet quickly, in one movement, just like a startled animal, but it was only a lone man walking along the riverbank, a fishing pole
in one hand and a bucket in the other. Manuel had seen him the day before. The man’s tall, gaunt body was topped by a small head with a face so wrinkled that Manuel was reminded of the old woman in his village who gathered bunches of epazote that she sold for fifty centavos apiece.
Did he sell the fish, or was it done only for enjoyment? Manuel knew so little about Sweden, about the people who lived in this country. He had read a little in a guidebook in a store in Mexico City, that was all.
He knew that there were many different types of Swedes but didn’t really care. His role here was not the eager curiosity of the tourist nor the systematic investigation of the ethnographer.
The fisherman disappeared behind a bend in the path and Manuel left his secluded spot. Ever since he had set fire to the short man’s house he had felt a growing anxiety. There were so many. He had aimed for Armas and the fat one, but in encountering the short one his task had suddenly increased. Although the short one had not been actively involved in the recruitment of Angel and Patricio, he was a link in the chain, and apparently an important one. He may even have been the brains behind the whole operation, and perhaps Armas and the fat one had simply been his errand boys?
The anxiety also stemmed from something Patricio had said to him in prison: “We could have said no.” That was true. Manuel had said no, and had warned his brothers against going to Oaxaca, where they were going to stay in a hotel and receive new clothing. They could have spoken up, continued to cultivate their corn, which others now harvested.
But they had chosen to say yes. How far did their responsibility extend?
Manuel drew a deep breath, locked the tent with the little padlock, and then strolled up to the parking lot. He looked around before wandering out into the open. Some twenty cars were parked in the lot. His rental car did not stand out, it blended in with the others, but he felt like an exotic creature as he carefully made his way to it.
The parking lot was located at the edge of an arts and crafts village that appeared to have a steady stream of visitors. The place was ideal. He knew that no one would pay any attention to the car, even if it stayed there overnight. It could belong to one of the workers from the strawberry fields.
The Demon of Dakar Page 19